


Parting Glass

by Darklady



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Theology, Comment Fic, Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, Gen, Mortality, faith - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is dying.<br/>He doesn't seem to be taking it  as seriously as the people around him expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parting Glass

“Put a psych watch on 312.” Father Wilson snapped, dropping heavily into the one decent visitors chair Millicent Alverez had managed to wedge into her tiny office at the back of the Social Services room.

“Why?” she asked, not looking up from her stack of paperwork.

Room 312 she remembered, as she remembered all the non-family admits who were expected to need her department’s services. Dean Winchester. Advanced heart disease, complicated by neurological degeneration, muscle scaring from past trauma, and just being older than fuck. None of which called for a mental heath listing.

She had gone down for the emergency admit, called to handle the insurance complexities. The old man hadn’t seemed aggressive. Well, not unless you counted the swat to Nurse Greggs rear, and given a gluteus like that Millie figured any straight man breathing would have done the same. Really. Nurse’s Greggs anatomy qualified as a test of life in at least seven states.

“Suicide”

“Huh?” Now she looked up. 

While it wasn’t unheard of for terminal patients to speed matters up? That was usually depressed young men, isolated old women, and those with severe pain management issues. Winchester didn’t qualify. Despite being an unmarried geriatric, he had a network wide enough that – on his prior admit – she’d have to move him to a private room because his roommate couldn’t sleep though the constant phone calls. As for pain? She checked her mental files. That could be an issue, given a youthful history of habituation to analgesics, but the record indicated that Winchester dealt well with discomfort.

“Dr. Al-Bari asked me to council the man since he was wearing a cross.”

Plus doctors hated having to give the bad news if they didn’t have a treatment plan at hand. Not to mention that Social Services was so understaffed and underfunded that a patient could die waiting to be put on the terminal services list.

“And Dean Winchester told a priest that he was going to off himself?”

She was polite enough not to add ‘and you believed him?’ In her (sadly vast) experience, those who did that were out to shock, and so interested enough in this world to remain in it. It was the quiet, polite, suddenly-cooperative ones you had to watch out for.

“No. Well, not exactly.” The priest scrubbed at this thinning hair. “What he said, specifically, is that he was going to die. Tonight. He said his angel told him his time was up.”

Ok. So that was different. “Did he sound… distraught?”

“Not exactly.”

“So? Remembering that I would appreciate the exactly.” First of all, because she was a good person and a dedicated professional who wanted to help. Honestly, she was. Secondly? (The unpleasant honest little voice at the back of her brain was a harsh whisper.) She needed to make sure her records were correct so that if Winchester did do something lethal the fallout didn’t look like departmental malpractice. 

“Well…”

“Yes?”

“He checked his watch, and then he said I should bring him a beer and a pepperoni pizza while he was still around to enjoy it.”

Now she was sitting upright, papers forgotten.

“He wanted you to bring him beer?”

“Lone Star. Longneck, not in the can.” Father Wilson had managed to shake off the worst of his exhaustion, at least to the point where he could muster the energy to sound offended.

O.K. So maybe that could qualify as a delusion. Not suicidal, unless you wanted to consider what the cholesterol would do to a man who already had three destroyed heart valves.

“I told him no, of course.”

Father Wilson waited for the nod. Which she gave, more out of practice than any considered agreement.

“So then – and this is where it gets strange – he said that, ‘How about just the pizza. I can wait on beer, since Gabe will have that. Guy’s pizza, though? Sucks.’ And yes, that is an exact quote. ”

“Gabe?” Her mind latched onto the least incomprehensible part of the sentence.

Maybe that Gabe was someone in his phone? Winchester hadn’t included any Gabe in his list of kin, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a friend by that name. Maybe a friend who cooked. Badly.

“Gabriel the Archangel, who is in charge of the West Gate of Eden, the Word of God, the Inspiration of Prophets, and apparently also the desert buffet. A detail I – strangely - did not discover in eight years of theology classes, but which is evidently the only reason I was not also asked for apple pie.” The priest straightened his collar. “Said that, if I wanted, he’d shoot out another prayer and have Gabriel ‘snap up’ something for me. In return for the beer.”

“OK. So he’s a little… unorthodox.” She didn’t remember who the patron saint of pie was. Probably didn’t exist, although Millie would wager good money her Tia could have named one. Tia Maria having a somewhat more… indigenous… not to say pragmatic… view of the relationship of Church and Life. 

At the priest’s huff she added, “Maybe in some slight denial.”

“Slight!” Father Wilson was on his feet.

So that had been wrong tactic to take. Evidently he had his second wind, and he was using it to turn windbag.

“I asked if he wanted to talk about his fears of dying, and he said he didn’t have any.”

“OK. Serious denial, if Winchester thinks he’s going to recover.”

Or another example of Dr. Al-Bari fluffing off the hard stuff. She scratched a note. Time for another memo about what the Social Services Department’s duties were – and what they were not. Actual bad-news delivery landed under ‘not’.

“No. He knows he’s dying.” The priest slunk back to his chair. “Tonight if you believe him. He’s just not afraid. Says he’s already been to hell and...”

“Wow.” She held up her hand, pencil wobbling. “Now that *will* get you a psych write up.”

“AND!” He rolled right over her worlds. “Get this. Afterwards, Jesus personally told him that he wouldn’t have to go back.”

“He’s talking to Jesus.” Her hand was already on the mental incapacity form.

“Yahshua,” the priest corrected. “Perfect Hebrew pronunciation and everything.” He paused for a moment, contemplative behind templed fingers. “The old guys a pretty decent theologian, except for all the odd heresies. And no, he’s not talking to Jesus right now, but only because… get this… Winchester thinks Christ is busy and he – he being Winchester, not the Lord Almighty - hates to leave messages. Says he’d rather wait and chat in person.”

Which was? She let the intake form drop.

“I can’t put a man on psych list for having faith. Especially not when - forgive me for saying this - but isn’t that supposed to be your faith? I mean, don’t you believe that too?”

“Not… Well, yes.” He shifted in the chair. “I mean, of course. I believe.”

“Really?”

Another huff and Father Wilson was gone. She suspected she would have to apologize later – even though the question had been unexpectedly sincere.

Millicent Alverez fingered the slim chain that encircled her own neck. Her baptism gift, worn for so many years she had forgotten she wore it at all. How long had it been since she had been to Church? Her brothers wedding, she realized. Ten years ago. Longer still since she had considered prayer as anything more than a professional gesture. Something to offer when drugs failed, but not something to offer *because* drugs failed. Not something one trusted to work when drugs failed.

How long had she offered forms, and social programs, and trivia in the face of pain?

But if one believed, really believed? If you trusted God to send angels – real angels in the ‘every knee shall bend’ sense rather than in Tia Maria’s botheration of candles and printed cards. If you honestly thought that you had heard from Christ Jesus, and that he had personally one-on-one to-your-face promised you salvation. (And wasn’t that what all those years of Catechism class had repeated?) If eternity was real, and Heaven just a life after this one? If weeping never lingered beyond the night, and joy always came in the morning?

If you believed. Really believed? Why wouldn’t your last request be pizza? Because what else would there be to ask for?

Maybe, she considered, she should drop in on Winchester. 

Today.

Before he checked out.

=

=

=

=

 

©KKR 2014

**Author's Note:**

> This is a comment fic from long ago – one that started with the discussion of who Joshua might be ["Dark Side of the Moon" (Episode 98 – or season 5 episode 16) ] given that the Joshua-who-fought-the-battle-of-Jerico wasn’t exactly of a status to be ‘God’s BFF’ and also had no power to grant ‘get into heaven free’ cards. Or, you know, bitch-slap angels. Yahshua Ben-Joseph, however? He fits the character as shown.
> 
> But then there came the question of… once you’ve spoken to that particular individual, and once he has pinky-sworn that you and your Boy-King-of-Hell brother WILL (not just can but will) be taking the fast elevator straight up if and when that final dirt-nap comes around? Well, then – exactly how spooky is the monster of the week? I mean, yeh, they can kill you. But… is that gonna be such a big deal?
> 
> A lot of our speculation got Jossed. (Especially our belief that this ep was where Cas heard from Dad.) Still – it was an interesting train of thought.
> 
> Sorry. Rambles.
> 
> This is a snippet of what was going to be a long and vastly theological (heretical) epic – before the series and my co-conspirator moved on.
> 
> Posting now. Just because.
> 
> ☺
> 
> PS: No intention to offend the faithful. This is TV-theology, so *ducks lightning bolt*.


End file.
